The Art of Deception

by Ridley Pearson

  Boldt said, “I have only a vague notion of the city’s Underground. A couple of blocks around Pioneer Square. The fire in the late 1800s, the tidal floods, and the decision to elevate the shoreline of the city. But according to these EMTs, they encountered what they believe was Underground clear up on Cherry and Third.”

  A few strands of hair broke loose from behind her ear and cascaded into her eyes. She brushed them aside. “Twenty-two city blocks were buried when they filled in the flats a hundred years ago. Retaining walls were built surrounding the old ground level, and then the streets backfilled to elevate them some twenty feet higher. It took over a decade to complete. The Underground tour accounts for only three city blocks. Plenty of other sections of the Underground still exist, most sealed off and awaiting us like time capsules. For the most part, they’re on private property, they’re dangerous, and though we’re constantly trying to gain access in order to inventory and photograph, fears of lawsuits and insurance coverage discourage cooperation. From the early 1920s on, city utilities were run along the old underground sidewalks, the perimeter area between these retaining walls and the brick walls of the old buildings down there. When I read about the sinkhole, I’d hoped the city engineers would allow us access. But the needs of archaeology took a backseat to getting traffic running again and the complication of much of this being private property. On the other hand, if you could get me—this department—access, you’d be doing the history books a favor. I’d be happy to tell you what you’re looking at.”

  “I was hoping this might work out the other way around.”

  “I’m afraid not. The city flat-out turned down my request. But a police lieutenant? Can’t you gain access, even to private property, if you want?”

  She’d clearly granted him the interview because she saw Boldt as her ticket into the Underground.

  “It doesn’t work like that.” He said this, but his mind ground through the possibilities. Dixon’s confused autopsy might provide enough unknowns to win Boldt the necessary paperwork.

  Babcock teased him into wanting this with her explanation. “As the city streets were filled in, to lift them above the flood levels, people moved block to block by climbing ladders, crossing the new streets still under construction, and then back down a ladder to another block. It went on this way for years. Eventually, the retail stores moved up to the new street level, but the old storefronts still existed.

  “They’re still down there,” she continued. “What used to be Main Street is now underground. I imagine that’s what your EMTs found themselves in: stores and shops and sidewalks that haven’t been touched for over a hundred years. You’re the one with the ruby slippers, Lieutenant.”

  Giving in to her urging, he said, “I’ll need the name of the owners.”

  “I can get that for you. No problem.”

  “It’s to be treated as a crime scene first, an archaeology dig second, if at all.”

  “I can live with that.” She extended her hand for him to shake. “I’ll leave the decision to you.”

  Boldt accepted her handshake, though somewhat reluctantly. He had the feeling he’d walked into a trap.

  Babcock had the callused hands of a farmer or field-worker. She said, “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  26 The Hearing

  Matthews considered the evidentiary hearing—a probable cause, or preliminary hearing—a formality. She’d attended only two such hearings in her decade of service, and then solely because she’d been called as a witness. When LaMoia informed her that he’d included “some of her paperwork” in his report to the prosecuting attorney’s office, and that because of this she was advised to attend the hearing, she lost her temper, admonishing him for submitting a report that was little more than “notes on a napkin.”

  She arrived at courtroom 3D like a plane coming in too fast for a landing, tires smoking and wing lights flashing.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” she said to LaMoia, where they sat three rows behind the prosecutor’s table.

  LaMoia held his finger to his lips, requesting she lower her voice. The hearing was not yet in session, but the prosecutor, a stump-faced woman named Mahoney, sat within earshot.

  He said, “We do what we do.” His only explanation.

  “I scribbled out a memo to you, John. That was not a psych evaluation.”

  “It is now.”

  “No, it isn’t. That’s just the point.”

  “We both want Neal for this, Matthews. I included the memo because it supports his frame of mind at the time of his statement, which was when he lied about the window of time. It’s that false statement that Mahoney’s hanging our case on for the time being. Let’s not forget that. The blood on the sweatshirt came back Mary-Ann Walker’s, yes. But hell if Mahoney is going to put Ferrell Walker up on the stand to tell us all where he got that sweatshirt—”

  “From behind a Dumpster in the back alley,” she said. “Within a few yards of the same vehicle we know ran her over. That works, John.”

  “But it brings Walker onto the stand for possible questioning. It opens up the threat on Neal’s life at Dixie’s and a personal thing between them. That’ll not only invalidate the sweatshirt but confuse the judge and leave room for reasonable doubt. We gotta trust Mahoney on this. She knows what she’s doing. She wanted the psych report.”

  “It wasn’t a psych report. You think the PD won’t know that?”

  “It’s a hearing, not a trial. There’s all sorts of leeway here, Matthews. Calm down.”

  “You or Mahoney should have asked me for a psych report.”

  “With all the time we had,” LaMoia said sarcastically, annoyed with her now. “Mahoney’s going on vacation next week, and I wanted her to handle it. Besides, defense agreed to the scheduling, and that means they had as little time to prepare as we did. ‘When the shoe fits . . .’ I’m not saying it’s perfect, but you play the hand that’s dealt you.”

  “Do not start quoting country music clichés, or I’m out of here.” She sat back and stared at the ceiling, wondering how LaMoia could take the wind out of her so effortlessly. When he got a few too many beers in him or, on rare occasion, submitted to the pressures of the job and lost his cool, he had a tendency to start spouting sidesplitting one-liners like, “I’ve got tears in my ears from lying on my back and crying over you”—a personal favorite of hers. She heard a little Kenny Rogers heading her way and ducked to avoid it.

  “So I’m here,” she said, “to support a psych evaluation that isn’t a psych evaluation.”

  “But the point is, you’re here,” LaMoia said, realizing the worst was over. “See? There’s a bright side to everything.”

  The hearing ran like a scaled-down trial; it was Mahoney’s job to make a case against Neal, and she went about the task in workmanlike fashion, offering Neal’s vehicle as the murder weapon—hairs, blood, and tissue had been collected from the undercarriage of the Corolla. A small amount of this organic evidence had been subjected to DNA testing and had been matched to Mary-Ann Walker. There was more to come, the lab tech announced from the witness stand. Mahoney hurried her presentation, apparently knowing that the court, too, regarded such hearings as pro forma and did not want to belabor her points, thereby annoying an overtaxed judge prior to the actual trial.

  Matthews’s evaluation was regarded as icing on the evidentiary cake—a way to incorporate possible motives for the crime and to subtly bias the judge against the defendant at the earliest possible moment.

  The public defender, a slightly overweight second-generation Indonesian man in his late twenties named Norman Seppamosa, with thick glasses and a pug nose, seemed outgunned and overwhelmed until he surprised everyone in the courtroom by requesting to cross-examine Matthews, a request immediately granted. He stood from his chair at the defendant’s table—an act of grandstanding normally not seen in such a hearing, as there was no jury to impress, and ran through a litany of questions that established Matthews’s creden
tials.

  Daphne Matthews saw Ferrell Walker directly behind Mahoney, occupying a seat in the last row. He nodded hello to her.

  As Seppamosa got started, Mahoney said, “Your Honor, I think we’re aware of Ms. Matthews’s credentials and qualifications.”

  The judge, an African American woman in her mid-forties and an outspoken liberal, clicked her tongue disapprovingly at Mahoney.

  Matthews found herself distracted by Walker’s presence.

  “The reason I ask these questions, Your Honor,” Seppamosa explained, “is merely to establish that we, and the court, should certainly accept the credibility of such an experienced and well-established expert witness.”

  Matthews felt her internal early-warning radar flash an alert and saw a similar concern sweep the patronizing smirk from Mahoney’s face as well.

  With an unwanted heat swarming up her spine and across the flesh of her back, Matthews had but a few precious seconds to prepare herself for a round of aggressive questioning. Having sat through nearly half an hour of unchallenged testimony, she had arrived in the witness chair believing Seppamosa would merely take furious notes, lifting his head occasionally as he had been doing all along, and await the calling of the next witness. With the man standing at the end of the table glaring at her, with him sweating so profusely as to stain the underarms of his suit jacket, with him addressing the court and lauding her expertise and reliability, she knew she had trouble. He had been lying in wait, nothing less.

  The judge sternly reminded Mahoney that if she had an objection, she would be well advised to address the court formally, not in unannounced outbursts. “This is not a revival meeting, Ms. Mahoney.” This reprimand indicated an erosion of support that clearly wounded Mahoney and drove her back to her yellow notepad to where Matthews couldn’t tell if she was listening or not. If Seppamosa was coming after Matthews, then she believed it was to get some, or all, of her testimony tossed. Exactly what testimony remained to be seen.

  “I see in the investigating officer’s report that you were present at Mr. Neal’s apartment on March twenty-eighth of this year.”

  “That’s correct,” Matthews said, checking a calendar offered by the bailiff.

  “In your expert opinion, Dr. Matthews, at that time did Langford Neal display any hesitation or reluctance in granting his permission for police to search his nineteen ninety-two Toyota Corolla?”

  “He did not.”

  “And in your expert opinion, Dr. Matthews, given that the state has made a case that evidence collected from that vehicle suggests the vehicle’s possible involvement in the crime, is this behavior—this willingness to share such evidence with police— consistent with what you’d expect in your vast and well-documented experience of a guilty party? Yes, or no?”

  “No.”

  “Is it consistent with what you’d expect of an innocent party?”

  Matthews hesitated, but realized her hesitation hurt their case more than quick, efficient answers. “Surrendering such evidence would be more typical of an innocent party, yes, but not reserved to—”

  He interrupted her. “Because basically Mr. Neal was handing over the smoking gun,” Seppamosa said. “Was he not?”

  Mahoney reminded the court there was no pistol or firearm associated with the Mary-Ann Walker homicide. The bench reminded Mahoney to object formally or face a court fine.

  Matthews was instructed that she did not need to answer the question.

  “Ms. Matthews,” Seppamosa said, suddenly dropping her title, an omission she took seriously, “because the state has failed to produce any witnesses, other than oceanographers, as concerns the timing of this event, and seeing as how counsel is basing a good deal of their suspicions of my client on what they call this ‘inaccurate window of time,’ I’d like to question you about the Q&A session—should I call it an interrogation?—of my client, Mr. Langford Neal. You were in attendance, were you not?”

  “I believe copies of the investigating officer’s report of that interview have already been put into evidence by Ms. Mahoney,” Matthews said.

  She was directed to answer the question.

  “Yes, I was in attendance.”

  “So it says here,” Seppamosa said.

  “Then maybe you don’t need my help,” Matthews said, winning a suppressed grin from Mahoney, “or shall I read it for you?” Seppamosa clearly intended to play hardball. The psychologist understood the importance of staking out her own territory and showing her willingness to engage. She sent the message that she would not roll over for him, and the attorney looked over at her with a renewed appreciation following the comment.

  “Not the entire document,” he said, a smug expression winning his face. “I would, however, appreciate if you read for the court page seven of the transcript, lines eleven through eighteen. I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the section. This would be the defendant, Langford Neal, speaking to you and to Sergeant John LaMoia, Crimes Against Persons, the lead investigator on the case.”

  Point, counterpoint—he’d turned her small joke around to sting her. She was now to read some part of the Neal interview into the court record, while simultaneously indelibly searing it in the judge’s mind. Mahoney thumbed a document with the dexterity of a chief librarian. Seppamosa handed Matthews a copy. She read the lines and had no idea where he was going with this: Seppamosa seemed to have missed the point of the expert testimony; reading this line would only support the strength of Mahoney’s case against Neal. Matthews cleared her throat away from the microphone and then read:

  NEAL: Maybe it was the phone ringing that woke me up in the first place. And I do remember what time it was. All twos flashing at me. Two twenty-two. The clock by the phone on her side of the bed. I remember that. Two, two, two. Flashing away.

  “And to your recollection, Ms. Matthews, is that verbatim?”

  “To my recollection, yes it is.”

  “This then is the contradiction to which Ms. Mahoney referred in her questioning of the oceanography expert, a Dr. Bryon Rutledge.”

  “It would be inappropriate of me to answer for either Dr. Rutledge or Ms. Mahoney.”

  “This is your understanding of the conflict, is it not?”

  “It is. The body had to have gone off the bridge before midnight. Therefore Mr. Neal could not have seen her on a fire escape two hours past midnight. That’s the kind of inconsistency that wins an investigator’s attention.”

  “Indeed.”

  Seppamosa returned to the defense table, foraged inside his salesman-sized briefcase, and came out with a bedside digital clock in hand. He then had Matthews read from a police inventory that accounted for all items in plain sight as documented. This, based on a court-ordered search of Neal’s apartment. She read the make and model of Neal’s bedside clock, and the court confirmed that Seppamosa now showed Matthews the exact same model of clock.

  Matthews did not see what was coming, but knew without a doubt that she’d been led into an ambush. She searched her thoughts in order to attempt to anticipate the attorney’s take on the bedside clock but still had no idea where it was leading. She glanced out into the gallery, only to see that both Mahoney and LaMoia looked equally puzzled and on guard. To anticipate the question was to be prepared for a clever response. Failing this, she felt set up and ready to play the scapegoat.

  Seppamosa plugged the clock into a floor receptacle alongside the stenographer, and it occurred to Matthews that he’d practiced this at least once—he knew where the power was; he knew what he was doing. He fiddled with the clock and turned it to face her.

  “For the benefit of the court,” he said, making sure both the judge and Mahoney were shown the face of the digital clock, “would you please read the time of day represented on the clock?”

  “Two twenty-two,” Matthews said. “I can’t tell if it’s A.M. or P.M.”

  Seppamosa said cheerfully, “It’s A.M. There’s a little light that glows indicating P.M. If the court wishes—” />
  The judge cut him off, insisting the court did not wish.

  Seppamosa noted for the sake of the record that Matthews had correctly identified the time of day as represented on the clock. He then dropped the bomb that Matthews felt in the center of her chest as a current of electricity. “And is the number represented on the clock steady or flashing, Ms. Matthews?”

  “It’s steady,” she reported, not only reading on the page in front of her but hearing aloud in her memory Neal’s statement of “all twos flashing at me . . . flashing away.”

  “For the benefit of the court, I am now unplugging the clock.” Seppamosa quickly replugged the clock, then aimed its face at Matthews. “And now? The time and the quality of the numerals?”

  “Twelve o’clock—one, two, zero, zero.”

  “And are the numerals steady or flashing?”

  LaMoia came out of his seat and headed for the courtroom’s back door, practically at a run.

  “Flashing.” Her heart sank, for now she knew exactly where he was heading.

  “Flashing, as in Mr. Neal’s statement to you and Sergeant LaMoia.”

  “Flashing, yes.”

  “What time does the clock say now?” He showed her the face again.

  “Twelve-oh-one.”

  “One minute past twelve, if it please the court.”

  The judge bid him to continue, not quite following the line of presentation.

  “Dr. Matthews, do you recall the window of time that Mary-Ann Walker’s body had to have gone off the bridge, this, according to testimony provided by the state’s expert witness, Dr. Rutledge?”

  Matthews hesitated. She’d just stated this herself.

  Seppamosa said, “Your Honor, I’m happy to have the court stenographer reread the—”

  “Between eleven-fifteen P.M. and twelve A.M.,” Matthews said, seeing no point to stretching this out even longer. Rule number one in court: Keep it quick when you’re losing.